


intertwined

by dumblittlefox



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i hope u enjoy, its really soft guys, next fic will include stan bc i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 05:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20718785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumblittlefox/pseuds/dumblittlefox
Summary: "oh youand Isafe from the worldthough the world will try" - intertwined by dodie clarkEddie is alive and Richie loves him.





	intertwined

Eddie was almost dead by the time they made it out of Neibolt. He was stretched out on the edge of the street against the old fence, his breathing shallow and labored. He was sitting in front of Richie, who was crouched down and still pressing his jacket against the open, pulsating, bleeding wound. He was feeling faint—dark eyes fluttering shut, mouth gaped as a thin stream of blood poured from his mouth. His breathing was growing duller and duller, and he could hear Richie’s voice driving through his ears, feel the warmth of his body pressed close. He tried to focus on that—tried to keep himself present.

“Hey, hey—stick with me, Eds,” Richie’s voice was trembling and so was his body, one arm pulled around Eddie’s back to keep him upright.

Eddie forced a bloody smile, feeling his body temperature drop and heartbeat slow. He tried to not let it show how fucking _scared_ he was. The last thing he wanted was to die in Neibolt. _Not exactly the ideal way to die._

“Not goin’ anywhere,” Eddie managed, though with every passing moment it felt less and less true.

He forced his eyes open and watched as Bev paced around the concrete, answering questions on the phone with the dispatcher, who was presumably sending an ambulance as soon as possible. Ben was at her side, rubbing at her shoulder, Bill trying to calm Richie’s demeanor, reminding him to just _breathe_, despite the way panic showed in his stutter. Richie kept dismissing his comments with a forced, ‘I’m breathing, asshole,’ although the words had no bite to them. Mike was pacing with his eyes downcast, biting at his nails.

The scene continued for a few more painstaking moments until he heard the faint ringing of an ambulance. He looked up at Richie, who was staring at him with tears wet in dark eyes, fingers clutching onto his jacket. He realized, humorlessly, that they probably looked ridiculous. A bunch of adults, coated in several, soaked layers of grime, probably smelling like shit, half of them stained with blood, pacing the concrete with a man on his deathbed perched against a fence. That reminder of how disgusting he was at the moment made him shiver—he was going to need a serious shower, followed by a bath, once this was all done.

The ambulance pulled up and Richie and Bill urged him to his feet, where he hung off the two of them, leaning against Richie’s side. He was rushed into the ambulance and hooked up to a gurney and they made quick work to get him stabilized. He could faintly hear one of the EMTs talking to his friends, insisting that someone should go with him. Richie took up that offer. He listened to Richie promising to meet the others in the ER before he was climbing in and joining Eddie, crammed in the small space with EMTs flanking both sides. He tried desperately to pay attention to what they were saying—maybe about how bad his condition was, look out for any code words he was familiar with—but he was starting to go into pretty bad shock, and with every moment he felt more and more like he was dying.

He barely registered Richie’s hand moving to find his and felt their fingers curl together, and he squeezed, as tight as he could. Partial reassurance that he’d be fine, partial movement of affection. Something to say, ‘_if I don’t make it out of this alive, then you know damn well that I love you._’

_Later._

The lights of the hospital waiting room were glaring and bright, and Richie was expecting an impending headache. Eddie was rushed into emergency surgery while Richie had been escorted into the waiting room where his friends were held-up, anxiety apparent in their affect. Even Bev—who usually seemed the most composed—was pacing the room, arms crossed over her chest. Bill sat leaned against Mike’s side, who had an arm wrapped around his waist. His eyes were fluttering shut, slowly but surely—exhaustion pulling over his body like a blanket. Ben sat on the edge of his seat, leg jumping, Dixie cup full of coffee. Richie found a seat next to Ben, forcing himself to take deep breaths, despite how his heart was absolutely pounding out of his chest.

His mind kept replaying the same images—Eddie being impaled, his name being choked through his lips, the way his body was carelessly tossed into the cave—he shuddered and noticed he was beginning to sweat. He took off his glasses and loosely rubbed at the drying blood on the lenses, staring blankly at the cracked surface. He was gonna need to order new ones soon. _Fuck._

He jumped at the feeling of Ben’s hand landing on his knee. He looked up to the man who offered a warm smile, rubbing gently.

“He’ll be okay, Rich,” Ben reassured.

“Yeah, the asshole _better_ be okay—or else me and God are gonna have a serious talk.” Richie mumbled.

He saw Bill crack a smile at that and he drew his eyes back to his glasses. He put them back on and leaned back in his chair, forcing himself to remain calm. He was in the hands of professionals, now—and if they couldn’t save his life, he was going to have a conniption fit. Ben’s hand left his knee and went to pull Bev back down in her chair next to him, where she sighed before residing.

Hours passed, painfully slowly. Richie found himself staring up at the TV playing on mute—watched the subtitles. It was some stupid 90’s comedy he found so, _so_, unappealing at the moment, but at the least it was a distraction. Eventually, the nurse came around and gave them an update, a smile pressed to her lips.

“He’s stable,” she announced, clicking the pen on her clipboard. “They just finished up surgery and he’ll be suitable for visitors in a couple hours.”

“Is he—is he _okay_?” Richie asked, arms curled around his chest.

“He’s still recovering, but he’s currently not feeling much pain, which is exactly where we want him right now. He’s a bit loopy from the medication, but that’s normal for someone in his state.”

Richie took a deep breath of relief.

“I’ll let you all know the moment he’s ready for visitation,” she announced before departing.

“Rich,” Bev hummed, looking at him with a soft furrow of her eyebrows, lips pursed in a slight frown. “You should probably go back to the townhouse, take a quick shower, maybe a change of clothes. It might help relieve some of your stress. I know you probably won’t be able to sleep, but at least it’d be better than just sitting here, waiting…I can come with you if you want.”

He sighed and nodded in agreement. With that, the two of them left. The whole ride back to the townhouse, he stared out the window, at the pitch-black blanket of the sky embodying Derry. The streets were illuminated with the neon glow of city lights. The radio hummed some once-familiar tune, and he felt exhaustion drawing his eyes closed.

When they arrived at the townhouse, Bev wrapped an arm around his shoulder and rubbed, comfortingly. He trudged up to his room and stared at the untouched bed and his bag sitting lonesome against the king-sized mattress. He grabbed a change of clothes and forced himself to shower. It admittedly felt great to wash all the dirt, filth, and blood from his body, and replace it with apple cinnamon scented body wash.

After he’d completed his shower and changed into something more comfortable—sweats, a warm hoodie, and a Henley, he slid on his sneakers and made his way to Eddie’s room. He fumbled with the key he’d been handed earlier on in the night and grabbed a change of clothes for him, too—something he knew he’d be comfortable in. It’d been a really long day, and he couldn’t help but empathize with him—poor guy had to finish off a hellish day of reliving his past and fighting a fucking clown with getting _impaled._

He met up with Bev shortly after gathering some essentials and stuffing it in a bag stolen from the front desk. On the car ride back, he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself anymore. Anxiety was building in his system, making his heart pound and palms sweat.

“Bev?” He mumbled, looking to her in the driver’s seat.

She looked to him with a concerned frown. She’d taken a shower, too, he noticed—her hair was dripping and her skin was clean of any grime from Neibolt. But the stress of the past two days was still obvious; she had dark circles growing darker beneath her light eyes, and worry lines were settling on her forehead.

“He’ll be okay, right?”

She nodded and slid her hand down to intertwine with his.

“Of course, honey.”

When they got back to the hospital, they only had an hour more of waiting. Bill was now asleep against Mike’s shoulder, clinging to his side, and Ben was quick to take his place next to Bev when she arrived. They made minimal chatter and Richie sat lonesome with his eyes glued to the stark white linoleum, leg beginning to bounce. Eventually, the nurse came back around, her nails tapping against her clipboard.

“He’s ready for visitors,” she announced. “Only one or two at a time, please—it’s best not to overwhelm him. Maybe 20-minute intervals would be good,” she suggested.

Bev looked to Richie, who looked at Bill. They were clearly the best nominations for this—his two best friends. So, Richie and Bill made their way up a couple floors and through plain hallways, Richie walking a little faster than usual. Bill didn’t say anything, but kept looking at Richie with concern and warmth, which only made him feel self-conscious of how he was acting. When they reached his room—room 201—he took a deep breath before turning the doorknob, and walking in.

He was almost shocked by what he saw. Eddie was half-asleep on the bed hooked up to a couple different IV bags—one presumably for fluids, the other for a blood transfusion. His shirt was off and a thick layer of bandages were wrapped snug around his chest. There wasn’t any sight of blood and he looked a million times better than when Richie had last seen him. A sigh of relief left his mouth and he smiled, shakily, stepping forward and into the line of sight.

“H-hey, Eds,” he whispered, taking a seat on a chair to his right. Bill sat across from him. “I was worried about you,” he admitted.

“You? Worried about _me_? That’s hilarious,” Eddie half-slurred, a drunken smile curved on his lips.

Richie smiled back and gently went for his hand, pulling their fingers together.

“W-we were really w-worried, Eddie,” Bill had his eyebrows drawn, wringing his hands together. “We d-d-didn’t know if y-you’d—” he looked to Richie, swallowed, “—m-make it.”

“Pfft, I’m _fineee_,” Eddie dismissed, eyes slowly closing.

Richie focused on the way his hand gently squeezed, on the warmth from his palm. A quiet reassurance that he was okay. That he was here, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Richie couldn’t help it when tears began to brink in his eyes. He dipped his head down into their hands and took a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way Bill was probably staring at him with pity.

“You can’t do that ever again, Eds—you’re not allowed to fuckin’ die on me, okay? Christ,” Richie mumbled, feeling tears drip into his and Eddie’s hands.

“I’m fine,” Eddie grumbled, “I couldn’t have left you if I tried.”

“W-we love you, E-Eds,” Bill muttered, “s-seriously, it was r-really scary.”

Richie could feel his emotions beginning to bubble over, a bit too intensely—Eddie didn’t even know how much that was true. He didn’t even know what he would have done if Eddie had died in Neibolt. _Because of me._ He pushed that thought away and squeezed a bit harder onto Eddie’s hand. He wondered if he knew how he felt. It felt like right now, more than ever, he really needed to be honest with him about his emotions. Seeing him almost die had proved that to him. He had a purpose now. An actual drive—someone to live for. Someone to _die_ for.

__

_Later._

A few days later and Eddie was discharged. He’d supposedly called his wife and had a very serious talk with her—one that included ending his marriage. Richie supposed that was a good thing, considering Eddie seemed a bit lighter now that he’d done it. He wondered if he had had a similar reaction when he cut ties with his mother before she had died. Bill had offhandedly mentioned doing the same for his own wife—mentioned that they weren’t really happy together as it was anyways. Bev and Ben had gone back home a day prior, and Mike had told Bill he had some things to tie up in Derry before he could make any promises—but that things were looking up. Eddie and Richie spent a few more days in Derry, with him and Mike being Eddie’s caregivers.

Eddie was starting to bounce back and Richie was enthusiastic about getting him physical training. Eddie had agreed to pack up his stuff and move in with Richie now that he and his wife were in the process of getting divorced, for reasons he had yet to disclose to Richie. On the flight back to Beverly Hills he had seemed extortionately drowsy from his pain medication, and incidentally, pretty clingy at that. Eddie had leaned into Richie’s side with his head on his shoulder, music blasting through his earbuds. Richie couldn’t do much besides hold his hand and feel himself furiously blush—he knew people were looking at him, and it was embarrassing, but quite frankly, he had stopped truly giving a shit a long time ago. This wasn’t Derry—and he wasn’t afraid to stick up for himself anymore.

A week later and Eddie was completely moved in and sleeping in the guest room, which was becoming his room instead. Though it seemed like most nights, he preferred to sleep with Richie—not that Richie was complaining. He was almost curious as to where his snarky attitude had gone; what had taken over him and replaced him with the clingy puppy he was now left with. He wasn’t necessarily upset about it, though. He still had his moments where he’d bicker with Richie just to bicker, despite being curled up against his chest, half asleep. He was doing a lot of sleeping when he was on his pain meds.

Tonight, they were watching some John Mulaney Netflix special that Richie had deemed the peak of comedy and Eddie had made a snarky comment about how he had no right to deem anything the peak of comedy with _his_ sense of humor. They were on his considerably sized sofa and sharing a blanket, Richie’s arm wrapped snugly around Eddie’s side. Eddie was making sleepy commentary, their remnants of dinner—Panda Express—shown by the half-empty cartons of food on the coffee table. He kept thinking Eddie was asleep, until he heard him childishly giggle at a punchline, shifting to curl closer into Eddie.

He could feel his face burning bright red, still not used to resuming the close proximity that he and Eddie tended to have as children. It wasn’t uncommon for them to fall asleep in the same bed half-cuddling—it was just their mode of nature—but it never failed to make Richie just a bit nervous. Richie was almost asleep himself, the warm glow of the TV the only thing illuminating the dark-shrouded room, atmospheric in nature. Just as the Netflix special was drawing to a close, he shook Eddie gently, looking down at the shorter boy.

“H-hey Eds, can I, uh, talk to you for a sec?”

“I told you not to call me that,” Eddie grumbled, “asshole.”

“Right, but, Eds—I’m serious, can we talk?”

He heard Eddie sigh and pull back from the warmth of Richie’s chest, looking up at him with a hand still clenched in the soft red of his baggy sweater.

“What? Who died, why are you so serious?”

Richie fumbled with the sleeve of Eddie’s shirt, rubbing gently over his shoulder.

“I just, uh—okay, this is gonna sound super fucking stupid, but it’s also extremely overdue, so maybe just hear me out?”

Eddie paused, looking at him with silent curiosity.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“Right—well. I, like, mean something to you, right?”

Eddie stared dumbly at him.

“Well—yeah, dude, you’re like my best fuckin’ friend, no _shit_ you mean something to me, Richie. Not like I almost died in your arms or something.”

Richie hesitated and stared back, pulling back slightly.

“I meant, like—” he silenced himself for a moment until Eddie gave him a gesture for him to continue, “—more than a friend.” It was whispered, almost too lowly.

They maintained eye contact for a few seconds, and Richie felt his heart absolutely pounding in his chest. When Eddie started to lean in, Richie’s eyes went wide, and his face flushed an even brighter red as their lips connected. It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed—there’d been that one time when they were kids playing truth or dare, and surely that counted—but this was the first _meaningful_ time.

He noted that his lips were soft and warm and that he tasted like the wine they’d been sharing with dinner. His eyes slowly drew shut when he realized Eddie wasn’t pulling away, and they fell into a moment of synchronicity, Eddie’s hand braced on Richie’s cheek, Richie’s arms drawn around his waist as he pulled Eddie half-way into his lap. The kiss went on for a while with a shy hint of tongue, until eventually, Eddie pulled back, and they were left to stare at each other for a while.

“Oh,” Richie whispered. “I mean, you could have just—y’know—said yes.”

“Shut up, dickhead,” Eddie lightly punched Richie in the chest.

Richie laughed and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Eddie remained half-way in his lap, legs draped over Richie’s, arms pulled around his neck. They watched the Netflix special draw to a close and by the time the credits began to roll, Eddie was asleep with his face buried lazily in the crook of Richie’s neck. In that moment, all he could think about was how relieved he was that Eddie was here—that he was in his arms, safe and sound. That he hadn’t died in Neibolt.

“Thanks for sticking with us, Eds,” Richie mumbled into his head of hair, “I couldn’t be prouder.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, hope u enjoyed !! find me over at @toziertrashed on twitter or @angelcoree on tumblr !! stick around for more reddie fics in the near future, including polylosers and multi-chaptered au's !!


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